


Some flowers bloom (where the green grass blows)

by wearethewitches



Category: Mr. and Mrs. Smith (2005)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, Gender Dysphoria, Heteronormativity, LGBTQ Themes, Pronouns, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:20:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25315204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: Sometimes, he’ll look at his wife and find that jealousy burns inside his gut, instead of pride.
Relationships: Jane Smith/John Smith
Comments: 3
Kudos: 22





	Some flowers bloom (where the green grass blows)

**Author's Note:**

> An anon on tumblr prompted me to write a Mr & Mrs Smith fic - who was I to disappoint?
> 
> The answer to 'how do you make a fic better' is clearly: _make it gay_.
> 
> title from 'Raise Our Cups' from Hadestown

They end up working for the CIA, eventually. International ops, sometimes together and sometimes not. Jane can’t stand his impulsive methods, plans changing on the fly to suit the situation and likewise, John chafes under her restrictions; it’s best they part, for the good of their relationship. And after all – absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say.

But somewhere in all of that, in years working for a legitimate government and having a wife who he can discuss his work freely with, John starts…changing. He’s less comfortable in his own skin and the ever-advancing modern age pushes at the mould he fits into, of a plain American man married to a beautiful American wife. Why? He can’t figure that out. But John knows there’s something wrong.

He’ll look in the mirror and wish his hips were narrower or his arms less beefy – he’ll question those thoughts and think, _what? You want to be a woman now?_ And he finds himself afraid at his own fear, the scoffs lined with terror even as his throat closes up at the idea of dying as plain old John Smith.

Sometimes, he’ll look at his wife and find that jealousy burns inside his gut, instead of pride.

When their ten-year anniversary swings around, they’re put together for a job in Morocco. John is Jane’s spotter for a long-range target, doing the calculations in his head and checking the GPS they stuck to the bottom of their mark’s car. He wants to tell Jane – Jane, who’s lying on the ridge beside him without a care, scanning the rooftops with a trained, professional gaze – who might be the only one he’d trust to understand. He could speak to his old buddies, but they’d probably have the same reaction he did.

John trusts Jane.

The problem is, he doesn’t trust himself.

He doesn’t want to say it wrong or freak her out – because the idea just becomes more solid in his mind, as he thinks about telling her. It’ll break their marriage, crack it right down the middle, but John knows deep down that she won’t abandon him. It’s- it’s just hard to say. So he waits, feeling Jane’s attention ramping up by the minute. Her adrenaline is clear in the lines of her body and the positioning of her shoulders; he barely gives her the okay before their mark is dead.

Immediately, Jane is sitting up, packing away her rifle. Her voice is sharp. “What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing,” John says automatically, wincing a moment later. “Everything. Can I- _talk_ to you about something?”

Jane meets his eyes briefly. The trust there almost gives him permission to breathe.

“It’s- it’s difficult to talk about. For me. Probably everyone.” He packs up, too, rambling, “Something’s been bothering me for a while, now.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Really, _really_ bothering me,” he says and he blurts it out when they stand up, without recourse or remorse. “I think I’m a woman.”

_“John.”_

“I’m serious,” he says and can’t help how his voice cracks, Jane’s expression of shock turning into worry. “This isn’t- I’m not lying or playing a trick.”

“I know,” Jane says, voice quaking, “which is what I’m concerned about. John- do you even want me to call you that?”

He considers it. John isn’t his real name, of course – it’s kind of a given, in their business. His parents were lucky enough to already be the Smith’s themselves, but the name ‘John’ is something he chose. It’s his, it always has been.

And really, that’s not the problem here.

“John is my name. That’s not going to change, I just-” and John halts, because he doesn’t know what to say. _I said it. I think I’m a woman._

It’s hard to think of himself with different pronouns, but John thinks the word here is _dysphoria_. His body is the problem. He hates the male figure of his body, how his collarbone is thick and his face is shaped like a goddamn _brick._ His voice is too low and his hair too short – and he’s too afraid of how everyone but Jane will react if he lets it grow out.

“Just what, darling?” She asks, hand coming up to rest on his chest.

“I don’t know,” he says, voice small and weak. Shame wells up inside of him like a helium balloon, about to pop and explode in his chest. “And I don’t mind if you can’t-” _if you can’t handle this,_ which is a lie, because John thinks that he’d cry his heart out there and then if she couldn’t help him through this.

Jane, as always, reads him like a book. Her hands glide up to hold his face, forcing him to meet her eyes.

“Don’t you say it. Don’t you ever _dare_ say it. I wouldn’t leave you. If you want to be my wife instead of my husband, then I will stand right there beside you. Do you hear me, John?”

The balloon dissipates and John crushes her in his arms, ducking his head into the crook of her shoulder, tasting the dusty air and sweat on her neck, the tiny strands of her long hair tickling his nose. Jane melts into him and his mind is ablaze, wondering what his life will be like- what _John the woman’s_ life will be like and thinking-

Will she get surgery, to look like she wants to?

Will she grow out her hair?

Will she wear dresses and hold Jane’s hand while they walk down the street?

-will she stop daydreaming and kiss her wife, already?

 _That last one’s a good idea,_ John thinks, leaning back and pressing lips against lips. Jane is ferocious and he loves her, _she loves her,_ even though there’s a tingling under his skin like a thousand ants and for a moment, his whole body feels like someone else’s.

“I love you,” Jane murmurs, when they part. “Whoever you are, I’ll always love you.”

“Same,” whispers John. She hits his arm at the plebeian response and he doesn’t care a jot, because she loves her as she is.

Just as she is.


End file.
